


I Stuffed a Box Of Tissues in The Hole in My Skull

by RottingBirds



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Comfort, Experimental, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Heart-to-Heart, Identity Issues, LGBTQ Themes, Nonbinary Character, Possibly OOC, Trans Character, Trans Peter Parker, never explicitly stated that that’s what it is but it is, please I’ve never written anything like this have mercy, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:01:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28013622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RottingBirds/pseuds/RottingBirds
Summary: Deadpool hums and twists the words over in his head. Neither of them speak. They both still and let the silence fill the space between them. A rest between notes. A lull in the ocean.“It’s sort of, I guess I don’t really feel like a guy all that much.”Peter blurts it out.(A dive into identity issues)
Relationships: Peter Parker & Wade Wilson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 72





	I Stuffed a Box Of Tissues in The Hole in My Skull

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Extremely brief mention of suspected SA that is quickly said to not have happened, struggles with identity and gender, dysphoria. Stay safe all!
> 
> Title is from Kimya Dawson’s The Beer. A rewrite of something I drafted earlier this year for Pride Month
> 
> I don’t ever read or write fics in this sort of vein but I thought it’d be fun to go outside my comfort zone and a nice way to celebrate! Obviously it’s extremely late but I still thought I’d share it with you all :D (mash between mcu Peter and comic Peter!)

This thing that resides in his chest is like a nasty cold he can’t shake off. Everytime he thinks it might’ve left, flushed down the toilet and forgotten, it comes back full force and he’s left struggling against its impact.

It hasn’t been this bad in a while. 

It tugs and yanks and his chest is tight, like it’s been filled and stuffed with this crowded fucking feeling that he doesn’t have the right tools to drain. Peter pushes a hand against his chest. His lungs expand under the skin. And it’s uncomfortable. Solid. Strong (before getting his powers he didn’t even think it was possible for him to get muscles like this). It’s not that it feels _wrong_ , but it’s never felt right either.

Ned glances over at him before connecting a LEGO turret to the rest of the medieval-style castle they had been working on for the past couple hours. 

He whistles, low. “Hey, Pete, are you good?”

Letting his hand drop to rest on his leg, he sighs. 

He doesn’t know.

This thing isn’t something he likes. In all honesty, it’s exhausting to work with. Like a constant motor that sometimes roars to loudly to bear and purrs quietly enough it tricks him into thinking it’s gone. But it’s been with him for so long. He’s gotten good at figuring out when it starts playing tricks on him. 

It’s exhausting, and hard to deal with, and it makes him feel like shit, yet it’s been with him for so long he isn’t sure what life would be like without it. Peter wants it gone. He doesn't know how to separate himself from it (doesn’t know if he _can_ ).

Peter reaches out to find a discarded LEGO on the floor, connecting it haphazardly to the drawbridge balancing dangerously in his lap. He bites his lip. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking.”

Ned makes a small noise to indicate that he’s listening. “Well,” he starts, nudging Peter with his elbow and giving him a comforting smile. “Try not to think too hard. We have a castle to build, man!”

Peter tentatively smiles back, fiddling with the drawbridge so he can have something to do with his hands.

“Of course, dude. Gotta finish it soon so we can start on that awesome _Lord of the Rings_ set you bought,” He says and is satisfied by the way Ned’s face lights up. 

“Totally, so stop being up here—” Ned taps his forehead. “—and start building.”

So Peter does (the feeling doesn’t go away).

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The suit sits on his bed in a crumpled heap from where he had thrown it aside last night, and Peter finds himself fantasizing about lighting it on fire.

Or, better yet, wear it while it’s burning. Maybe that can get rid of the constricting thing that holes up in his body. Maybe it can stop making him feel like his head is screwed on wrong.

Peter picks up the suit. Would he care all that much if he destroyed it? Objectively, he already knows the answer is _no,_ but Peter has no desire to stay up the extra nights to fix the damn thing himself.

He groans and throws himself onto the bed. This whole thing will be the death of him someday, he can feel it. But Peter gets up, moves to the bathroom, and changes into his goddamn hero costume.

And he doesn’t know how long he stands in front of his mirror. Peter feels… he doesn’t feel good at all.

He presses his hands on his hips, slowly moves them up to his shoulders. The spandex slips through his fingers when he tugs on it before it snaps back to his body. Form-fitting. It makes his skin crawl.

In the end, it’s all he can do to force his discomfort down, clench his teeth, and slip through his bedroom window. 

He’s grateful that the next two hours go by faster than he expects them to. He calls a cab for a group of drunk friends, beats up a few petty thieves, and leads a lost kid to the police department (the cops, of course, give him a wide berth. It’s a stark reminder that they still don’t see eye to eye). Then it’s all swinging and watching and Peter quickly becomes mind-numbingly bored. He makes a quick mental note to implement a music feature in his suit.

Another twenty minutes pass without a single thing happening. Peter feels confident that it’s safe enough to take a small break. Swinging to the building nearest him, he lands on the roof and looks around to find a safe place. Somewhere he can still see around him if he needs to but hidden enough he won’t get jumped by being in plain sight. 

There’s a door off to the side and next to it is a small corner, right next to the rows of small garden plants that line the left side of the roof. 

He tucks himself into the corner, stretches out, lays on his back, and stares at the night sky. It’s not like there’s ever that much to see, though. Curse New York and it’s light pollution. Still, it’s peaceful, he decides. The earthy smell of soil is the most comforting thing today. It reminds him a lot of elementary science projects. 

Of course it’s just his luck that It’s all short-lived.

“Aw, the itsy bitsy spider has lost his way from the spout,” someone coos from next to him. The voice is familiar.

Peter groans and rubs his hands over his face. It’s a voice he could recognize anywhere (that’s what years of working together will do to you). He rolls to his side and is met face to face with the whites of the mask the merc wears. He’s crouched down low next to him, inches away from his nose. 

“Hey, Deadpool,” he sighs “When did you get here?”

Peter can imagine the shit-eating grin he wears. 

“Oh—uh—y’know, a little after you,” Deadpool waves a dismissive hand in the air. 

“Thought it would be nice of me to stop by and say ‘Hello’, like old buddies do.”

Peter snorts. “Since when have we ever been the type to stop by and say ‘Hello’, Wade?” He grabs Deadpool by the face and pushes him back to leave space for him to sit up. “And besides, I’m not dumb, remember? The only way you’d ever be able to find me as quickly as you did would have to be because you were following me.”

Deadpool reels back with indignation and holds his hands up, feigning innocence. Peter rolls his eyes. “Nooo.” His voice is pitched high in a lilt and he shakes his head fervently. 

He holds a hand to his heart and pretends to be shot by an arrow. “How dare you make such an accusation? You wound me, Spidey.” 

Peter just rolls his eyes again and punches him in the shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, save the theatrics for someone who cares.”

“How did you even follow me anyways? I thought I was pretty good at making sure no one was ever on my tail,” Peter asks. It was true. After multiple run-ins with villains who had stalked him on patrol, he would’ve thought he’d gotten better at it over the years. How Deadpool even managed to keep up is besides him.

Deadpool shrugs and leans back, splays his fingers out in front of him in the air. “Hmm, well you aren’t exactly subtle. All I did was follow your path of destruction, and I can find that ass anywhere in that tight fucking spandex you wear.” Deadpool turns his head and looks Peter up and down, nods. “Yeah—you can really see everything. No complaints here though.”

Peter stiffens. Deadpool has never been one to censor himself, but god if Peter doesn’t wish he would stop doing these sort of things. He hates being so conscious of his own skin. 

The shift in the air is almost tangible. Awkward. Clumsy. Peter even feels a little embarrassed.

Because something akin to dread courses through him. He really thought he managed to shake it off. 

He’s been so hyper aware of every move he makes today, but it’s reaching a point now where it’s almost overwhelming. He’s aware of the way his chest rises with every breath. The way he brings his hand up to press hard on his chest, trapped between the knee he had brought up and his ribs. He doesn’t regret going on patrol. He _does_ regret his choice of costume. 

Deadpool notices he’s stepped over a line that wasn’t meant to be crossed.

“Shit, did I say something?”

Peter frowns and shrugs his shoulders. 

It’s not all that clear, even to himself. _Did_ Wade cross something that he wasn’t meant to? Will Peter ever even be able to tell with him? 

“No,” he says finally, grimacing. Fiddles with the bottom of his mask that meets with the body of his suit. The lines are so blurred in his head it’s hard for him to rationalize it. 

His frown deepens. “Well, maybe. I’m not sure?” 

Tilting his head to the side, Deadpool studies him. Peter knows he’s being vague. Knows his words aren’t a solid answer. It takes Deadpool a while to speak. 

“Is this—“ he waves a hand towards him as a way to sum up what he mean. Peter’s never seen him being so careful with what he says, much less come to the conclusiong he needs to be so quickly. “—like, a PTSD thing?”

Huh? 

And then Peter’s eyes widen with realization and he’s shaking his head before Deadpool can say anything else. 

“Oh my god, no nothing like that I swear” He dismisses quickly and Deadpool visibly relaxes. 

“Shit, okay that’s good.” Wade lets out a low breath. “I would've beat the fucker who did anything like that to you, just so you know." (Peter feels a surprising surge of appreciation). "But er, then what _are_ you talking about then?”

A beat. 

“It’s not… it’s more than a ‘being sexualized’ thing, y’know?” Peter starts, slow. 

“It’s hard to describe it. It’s like, like—fuck how do I even say—I don’t like that you see me as-as the way I am right now.” It raises at the end, sounding like more of a question than an answer. 

Deadpool hums and twists the words over in his head. Neither of them speak. They both still and let the silence fill the space between them. A rest between notes. A lull in the ocean. 

“It’s sort of, I guess I don’t really feel like a guy all that much.” 

Peter blurts it out. 

He claps a hand over his mouth, heat flushing his face red (he’s suddenly very grateful that he chose to keep his identity a secret from Deadpool).

And then he’s rushing to explain it all.

“It’s not like I don’t _not_ feel like a guy but I also don’t _do_ feel like one.”

He turns away so he can’t see Deadpool’s reaction, no matter how limited the expressions may be under the mask.

“I don’t know if other people feel like this but I know that I really really hate a lot of the things people say and call me, and a lot of things make me feel, good? I guess? Great actually. Stuff that I’ve never heard other guys my age—or any age—talk about or been called before. What… what’s going on with me?”

Peter laughs weakly, dumb and shaky. “I feel like there’s something fucking wrong with me but I can’t tell what it is. And it’s not trauma, it’s not mental illness, I’ve felt like this since I was a kid. Before all the shit, I _know_.” 

It’s more scary than relieving, if anything. Peter doesn’t know if this is something he should be talking about. He finds himself meaning every word. 

“I don’t want to be called a man, I don’t want to be called a girl I-I just—“ Peter groans into his hands. “—I don’t know what I want.” He mumbles, miserable. “That’s the problem. It’s all so-so _confusing_ and _difficult._ ”

The silence is back again, heavier this time with the weight of his words. God, this must be the sort of thing people don't just put out in the open. It has to be some sort of unacceptable social thing he doesn’t know about (of course he wouldn’t, he’s book smart, he doesn’t really get a lot of things outside of it). 

Peter shakes his head and pushes off the ground, dirt clinging to his costume he doesn’t care to brush off.

“Know what, forget all of that,” Peter strains, taking a step away. Deadpool makes a move to reach for him. 

He whines like a child behind him, “Wait! Hold up, you haven’t even given me time to say anything.” If they were in a different situation, perhaps Peter would’ve laughed at his tone, let it take some of the edge out of the air. 

But it works enough that Peter stops, stiff. Let’s Deadpool make the first move. 

So he does. Deadpool grabs Peters wrists and pulls him back, forces them both to sit on the floor facing each other surrounded by small, sprouting plants. 

It’s a little uncomfortable. Him and Wade aren’t usually ones for serious conversations like these and there’s a rock digging into his ass. Peter can’t help but worry. 

Deadpool smacks his cheeks and makes some weird noise with his mouth before saying, “Serious mode activated.”

Weird. 

He waves the hand still holding onto Peter and drags his arm up with his own. “Have you ever considered that it doesn’t have to make sense?” He questions, and despite the strange show before, Peter takes the question into consideration. 

“Gender’s one big construct, it’s not like it’s an actual, tangible thing. Tons of people exist out of the binary,” Deadpool explains, tapping a finger on Peter’s wrist he still holds, still waving it with along with the explanation. 

“You don’t have to be a boy. You don’t have to be a girl either if that’s what you want. And besides,” Deadpool let’s go of his wrist. 

“It’s not like it’ll change anything much. Just, I don’t know, exists as you are, still hot either way.” 

Peter elects to ignore the last bit and bites his tongue. “Yeah? You know anyone like that?”

“Mhm, had an old crime buddy back in the day. They always talked about this sort of stuff. Used a lot of terms I didn’t know that much about but damn were they good at their job.” Deadpool says. 

Peter sighs and takes his hands back, letting one wander back up to his chest. It's grounding, the action. He lets out a strange, weak noise (something between a laugh and a gasp of relief). “God, I must be going crazy if I’m actually going to take your advice.” 

Deadpool laughs and practically knocks Peter over with the amount of force he hits him with. “No, you’re not crazy. You might be having an identity crisis but eh, everyone has one once and awhile.”

“Jesus.” Peter can’t help but chuckle. Deadpool lightens.

“I’m a mess, aren’t I? Fucking ‘identity crisis’.”

But the feeling in his chest has lessened. Like it’s shifted into place. It’s still strange, still full and wrong but there’s so much relief with getting an explanation for it Peter finds that he can deal with it easier. He'll look this stuff up when he gets home. He'll try and find what fits him.

“Yep! And I’ll help you through it, and no you don’t get to argue.” Deadpool beams. 

Peter knocks into him, gets up for good this time and stretches his arms above his head. “Hey, maybe we should have conversations like this more often, Wade. If you get a girl—“ 

Deadpool interrupts with a quick, “—Or boy! Or anything really I’m desperate—ow!”

Peter cuts him off with a punch, amused. “Shut up.”

Perhaps, Peter really can get used to this. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hc Peter using they/he pronouns but for the sake of this story I stuck with he <3


End file.
